Page 19 of One Little Mistake

She leans forward, voice sharpening.

“If you refuse to take the boy, child services will step in, and he’ll stay in the system until Erin wakes up. Can you imagine the stress that puts on a baby? Who’s going to hold him, love him, care for him the way he needs? Will you be able to sleep at night knowing your son is lying alone in a crib, hungry and neglected?”

She’s clearly trying to tug at my heartstrings—and, okay, maybe it’s working a little—but here’s the thing: this kid isn’t mine. So no, it’s not going to work. No guilt, no moral awakening, no sudden fatherly instincts kicking in.

Her impassioned speech is cut off by a knock at the door. I turn toward the sound and watch a young nurse in a white coat enter the office, carrying a small bundle in her arms.

“He just ate, so he’ll probably sleep the whole way,” she says brightly, walking toward me with a big smile as she tries to hand me the bundle—inside of which is a pink, slightly scrunched-up baby. Cute? Eh. The mom’s not bad-looking, so maybe he takes after the dad.

“Nope. No, thank you.” I raise both hands like she’s holding a grenade, refusing to take the kid. Then I turn back to the head of the maternity ward. “Look, there’s been a mix-up. My name is Max Taylor too, but I’m not the father of this baby, so I’m not taking him home. If it’s about money—fine. I’ll coverwhatever needs to be covered. But I’m not taking on this kind of responsibility. What am I even supposed to do with him? Let me try to find some relatives of Erin’s. Or the real dad. They should be the ones looking after him.”

“Mr. Taylor, now I’m completely confused,” she says, frowning. “Last time, you didn’t deny this was your son. Now you’re saying the opposite. What am I supposed to do with the baby? Can you please make up your mind?”

“Someone here should look after him,” I say calmly. “I’ll pay for whatever he needs. And if possible, I’d like to get Erin’s personal things—her phone and ID. I need to contact her family. I left a bag here last time, remember?”

She presses her lips together, clearly annoyed. Her glare sharpens. I can tell she’s not thrilled about how this has turned out—and me refusing to take the baby only makes it worse for her.

“Fine. Martha, please bring Miss Hale’s belongings.”

“And... and the baby, ma’am?” the nurse asks, flustered.

“Back to the ward, obviously,” she replies with a sharp edge. “Apparently, the father isn’t the father after all. Make sure the boy is cared for.”

She falls silent for a moment, watching Martha’s retreating figure as she leaves with the baby. When the door closes behind them, the head nurse locks her eyes on me again.

“And you, Mr. Taylor… I sincerely hope you find your ‘not-wife’s’ relatives as soon as possible.”

“Sure,” I mutter, giving a curt nod. This vacation’s turning out great. One week back on dry land and things are already a complete mess.

I wait silently for the nurse to bring Erin’s stuff, then finally say my goodbyes and step outside. The fresh air hits me hard, scrubbing away the thick smell of hospital disinfectant.

I climb into my car, still on edge. The whole day has been a disaster, courtesy of our mystery new mom. I dump the contents of her purse out onto the passenger seat and pick up her phone.

It’s the latest model—just like mine. I plug it in and groan when the screen lights up. Locked. Password. Or Face ID. Neither of which I have.

Fine. Whatever. Guess I’m not meant to solve this today. She’ll wake up eventually, right? And when she does, she can find her own family. Or the baby’s real dad. I mean, she’s not going to be in a coma for a whole year... right?

***

I get home late that evening. First, I ran into a couple of friends, then spent a long time just driving around the city, lost in thought, my eyes constantly drifting to the passenger seat. Erin Hale, twenty-five. According to her documents, she lives somewhere deep in the sticks. Owns a black 2015 Toyota. Registered as self-employed, runs a flower shop—just like Vivienne said. Pretty ordinary girl. Doesn’t seem like a scammer, and nothing went missing from the apartment, except maybe the office furniture.

As I drive past my parents’ house, I catch a glimpse of lights in the windows of my ex-wife’s place and step on the gas—anything to get away from the temptation of sneaking a look at her. Even though she crushed everything we had, I still get hit with waves of nostalgia sometimes, aching to turn back time. To that first apartment. Small, but with a view of the park—and most importantly, it was ours. We were happy there, making plans for the future, going on beach vacations, and every spring we’d take a week or two in the mountains. And hell if I know what more my ex-wife wanted.

The sudden ringing of the intercom rips me out of my memories, and it takes me by surprise—I wasn’t expectinganyone. With effort, I lift my head from the pillow, pull on a T-shirt and jeans, and head for the door. The screen shows Vivienne’s worried face, and my brow rises in surprise. It’s nearly eleven at night.

“Vivienne? Is everything okay?” I ask as I open the door and take in her petite frame.

“Yes—I mean, no, not exactly.”

She slips past me into the apartment and shuts the door quickly, cutting us off from any nosy neighbors. It’s obvious she’s nervous, unsure where to start. Her eyes flit around the room, pausing on the women’s clothes hanging by the door and the shoes on the floor.

“She’s not here,” I grunt, already guessing who Vivienne’s eyes are searching for.

She gives me a guilty look, presses her lips together, and clears her throat.

“I feel awful about all this,” she says in a low, muffled voice. “I’m so sorry. I just never imagined that someone who knew so much about you—and was pregnant, no less—could turn out to be a complete stranger. If she stole anything, I’ll make it right, I swear,” she adds passionately. “But I really don’t think Erin’s that kind of person. I got to know her pretty well over these past few months. She just needs a chance to explain. You didn’t report her to the police, did you?”

“No,” I shake my head.

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